by Markus Heitz
“And she’ll tell you about that too,” Boïndil added merrily.
“I wouldn’t wish that on anyone,” said his brother, “but if she likes you, well… anything is possible. But enough about womenfolk.”
Their journey continued, and after several orbits Tungdil began to recognize his surroundings, which meant they were getting closer to Lot-Ionan’s vaults.
He was looking forward to seeing the famuli and being reunited with Frala and her daughters. They’ll never believe that I’m an heir to the throne! To prove that he hadn’t forgotten her, he knotted Frala’s scarf around his belt.
After a while they came to a river. A ferry was moored on the opposite bank near the ferry master’s house and smoke was rising from the chimney.
Tungdil reached up to ring the bell that was suspended from a tree beside the berth. That way the ferry master would know to come and fetch them.
Boïndil grabbed his hand. “What are you doing?”
“I’m calling the ferry, unless you’d prefer to swim,” said Tungdil. “It’s either that or get the boat.”
Boïndil eyed the swirling water. The river was lapping against the banks. “We’ll go a different way,” he decided. “It’s too deep here. We could fall in and drown.”
“You could fall off your pony and break your neck,” Tungdil countered sharply. “Come on, Boïndil, it’s too far to the next crossing — two orbits, at least.” When he saw the twins’ stony faces, he knew it was useless to protest. “It’s this way,” he sighed, pointing upriver. “But I don’t see what’s wrong with the boat.”
It was all the encouragement that Boëndal needed to launch into the story of why dwarves and water didn’t get along.
“Long ago, Elria put a curse on us. Elria was born of water and water was her element. From the beginning, she took a dislike to the dwarves — Vraccas’s fire-loving, furnace-tending children couldn’t have been more different from her water-dwelling creatures. To protect her children, she put a curse on the dwarves, and now any dwarf who ventures into water outside his kingdom is doomed to drown.”
Lakes, rivers, ponds, or streams — according to the twins, even puddles could pose a mortal danger, and they avoided water at all costs.
“It’s an excellent excuse for not washing,” Tungdil told them.
They rode until nightfall and arrived the following orbit at the ford. When the time came to cross, the brothers waded nervously through the fast-flowing water, the river swirling ferociously about their thighs as if it intended to carry them off.
It was evening when they finally neared the entrance to the tunnel leading into Lot-Ionan’s vaults. Boëndal and Boïndil grew uneasy at the thought of wizardry and spells.
“I didn’t like coming here the first time,” grumbled Boïndil. “ Lot-Ionan is a nice enough fellow, I’ll grant you, but he’s a magus. At least we dwarves have the good sense to know that hocus-pocus never did anyone any good. We stay away from it. If Vraccas had wanted us to dabble in magic, he would have given us wands.” He stared at Tungdil suspiciously. “You understand that, don’t you? I hope he hasn’t given you any daft ideas…”
“I can’t weave magic,” Tungdil said soothingly. “I’ve never even tried.” He stopped for a second and looked at the brothers imploringly. “Promise me you’ll treat him respectfully. Without his charitable intervention, there wouldn’t be another claimant to the throne. In fact, it’s only because of his salutary —”
“Listen to him!” Boëndal said sarcastically, mimicking his voice. “Do you hear the scholar speaking? Quite the gentleman, isn’t he? He must be refining himself for highfaluffing conversations with a more h-h-educated race.”
“Highfalutin,” Tungdil corrected him with a smile. “All right, point taken. Either way, be nice to him or say nothing at all. You can wait at the gates if you’d rather. I’ll be fine on my own.”
It was already dark by the time they got there. Even from a distance Tungdil could see that the door to the tunnel was ajar. It was usually bolted and protected with a magic incantation, but one of the famuli must have forgotten to do his job.
Tungdil grinned mischievously, his tanned face creasing around his eyes. Whoever was guilty of such negligeßnce would soon regret it. He intended to give the vault’s inhabitants the shock of their lives.
“ Tut-tut,” Boïndil said disapprovingly when they reached the open door. “The confounded thing better not close behind us. What if it’s a trap to catch innocent travelers?”
“Why would the magus want to trap travelers?” his brother inquired.
“To try out new gobbledygook on them, of course! You don’t think he’d experiment on his own apprentices, do you? He needs to be sure that his wizardry works.” He looked to Lot-Ionan’s protégé for confirmation, but Tungdil chose not to get involved. Boïndil unhooked an ax from his belt and mumbled threateningly into his beard. “If any of those wand-wielders so much as looks at me oddly, I’ll show them what for.”
Boëndal burst out laughing. “Don’t worry, I’ll be sure to punish them if they turn you into a mouse or a bar of soap.” He gave the butt of his crow’s beak an affectionate pat, but his brother was frowning grimly.
Tungdil noted their squared shoulders; it was clear from their posture that they were ready to fight. He decided to head off any possible misunderstandings by leading the way.
“Keep the noise down,” he told them. “I want to take them by surprise.”
Boïndil looked skeptical. “Seems to me that’s just asking for trouble. What if they put a spell on us by accident? They might not recognize you in time.”
Tungdil waved dismissively and stepped into the vaults. At once he was surrounded by the familiar aroma of paper, papyrus, parchment, and a hundred dusty books, mixed in with the smell of stone and a hearty whiff of supper. “Boiled potatoes and meat,” he declared.
He looked over his shoulder at the twins, who were more interested in studying the tunnel and speculating in low tones about who had built the vaults and why.
“You can tell it’s the work of long-uns,” Boïndil was saying. “Do you see this? I noticed it last time as well. To think they didn’t bother to work with the rock! They’ve cut through the strata with no concern for the veins.” He pointed at something. “If they’d troubled themselves to look properly, they wouldn’t have got themselves into such a mess. Even I could do better, and I’m a warrior!”
“A precarious design.” Boëndal was gazing at the ceiling that was propped up every few paces by pillars and struts. “There’s too much sand in the soil. An engineer or a miner would never have taken such a risk.” He prodded the ceiling gently with his crow’s beak, loosing a shower of mud and stone. “I’m no expert, but they should have dug the whole thing out. See how the warmth has dried the sand strata and made them all crumbly? Your magus needs a lesson or two in how to dig tunnels. It’s a good thing we’re here.”
“Shush,” Tungdil reminded them firmly. “You’ll spoil the surprise.”
“No sentries, no alarm system, nothing!” Boïndil rolled his eyes. “No wonder Vraccas told us to take care of the longuns! The whole place would be easier to conquer than a dead dragon’s den. Dwarves are more careful,” he continued in a whisper still loud enough for Tungdil to hear.
Tungdil tiptoed on. His eyes had adjusted to the dim light, but the vaults were too quiet for his liking. There was no chattering of voices or banging of doors. If it hadn’t been for the tantalizing smell of supper, he would have suspected the magus of moving his school elsewhere.
“Maybe they’ve abandoned the vaults and left the cook behind,” mused Boïndil out loud. “Hardly surprising, given the state of the place.”
The comment earned him a reproving look from Boëndal. “Surely they’d take the cook with them?” he couldn’t help asking.
“Not necessarily.” Boïndil grinned. “He might be so bad at his job that they’ve made him stay and practice until the ceiling caves in. Either that,
or he’s stewing in his soup.”
Tungdil was too intent on reaching the magus’s study to listen to their chatter. He knocked on the door. No one answered, so he walked straight in.
“I’ll wait out here with Boïndil,” Boëndal called after him. “We don’t want to spoil the reunion.”
On entering the room, Tungdil could scarcely believe his eyes. One half of the study was in a state of chaos with books, sheets of paper, and scribblings strewn over the floor; the other half was impeccably neat.
Tungdil had never seen such orderliness in Lot-Ionan’s study. The books were stacked on the shelves in alphabetical order, the paper had been left in tidy piles, and the quill and inkwell were in their proper places.
He must have dreamed up a new charm that makes the mess tidy itself, he thought, impressed. He could see the logic in trying it out on one half of the study, but there was still no sign of the magus. I hope the spell didn’t tidy him away.
He wandered round the chamber, looking for anything that might explain the silence in the vaults.
Boïndil sighed loudly. “Waiting is a hungry business,” he declared. “I’m off to find the kitchens. If we ask nicely, they might spare us a bite.”
“We should take Tungdil with us,” his brother said anxiously. “The long-uns won’t know who we are, don’t forget.”
“All the more reason for introducing ourselves.” Boïndil was too hungry to worry about being cautious. “You can wait if you like, but there’s a hole in my belly stretching down to my knees.” He strode off.
Boëndal was reluctant to let him go anywhere unsupervised. They were guests at the school, and guests were expected to behave with a modicum of decorum, which didn’t come naturally to his twin.
“Tungdil, we’re off to the kitchens,” he shouted. “I’ll keep an eye on Boïndil, don’t worry!” He hurried to catch up with his brother, who was disappearing around the corner.
The twins had no trouble finding their bearings in the vaults. Vraccas had given his children an infallible sense of direction when it came to orienting themselves underground. They knew instinctively whether a passageway would slope upward, downward, or curve gradually to one side, and they had no need of the stars to plot their course. In this instance, they were guided by the tantalizing smell.
All the rooms they passed were empty: There wasn’t a soul in sight.
“Maybe it’s dinnertime,” Boëndal suggested hopefully, trying to ignore his growing unease.
They made for the passageway, where the smell of meat was strongest. Their tunics and armor clanked softly while their heavy boots clumped rhythmically on the floor. At last they reached a door that led into the kitchen, judging by the splashes and smears.
Boëndal tried to surge ahead to make a more orderly entrance, but his brother beat him to it. He gave the door an almighty shove.
Four great hearths burned in the high-ceilinged room, but otherwise the kitchens were as deserted as everywhere else. Curiously, there was evidence of recent activity: The stoves were roaring and supper simmered and hissed in covered pans. Large round cooking pots hung above two of the hearths, chunks of meat rising to the surface and sinking into the bubbling brown broth.
By now Boëndal had a definite feeling that something was wrong. Abandoned rooms and brimming cauldrons: It simply didn’t add up. What’s going on? He scanned the kitchen carefully.
“This is more like it,” Boïndil said cheerfully. He let go of his ax, tore off a piece of bread, and headed purposefully for the nearest stove. Balancing on a stool, he lifted the lid of a pan and peered inside — juicy slabs of simmering meat and gravy. His mouth began to water. “It would be rude not to taste it.”
He dunked a sizable hunk of bread into the sauce and prepared to swallow the morsel in one bite.
“Stop!”
His brother’s warning brought him to a sudden halt. “What now?” he snapped, his stomach growling in protest at being neglected for so long. “Can’t you see I’m eating?”
Boëndal had positioned himself next to the door, crow’s beak at the ready. Judging by his stance, he was anticipating trouble. “I don’t mean to spoil your appetite, but take a look over there.”
Boïndil followed his gaze. The butcher’s block, used ordinarily for chopping and filleting meat, was piled high with bones that had no place in a kitchen. Four skulls in particular held their attention: They were human in form.
It took a while for Boïndil to link the bones to the broth, but then he hurled away the dripping bread in disgust and jumped to the ground, drawing his axes.
“When I get hold of that magus, there won’t be a spell in the world that can save him,” he muttered darkly.
“Humans and wizards aren’t usually cannibals,” Boëndal told him. “If you ask me, there’s been a change of guard. The magus didn’t forget to lock the door; someone attacked.” He peered into the corridor. “It’s time we found our scholar.”
Walking back-to-back, they retraced their steps through the eerily empty passageways, Boïndil leading and Boëndal following and watching his back.
Tungdil sat down on the footstool next to Lot-Ionan’s armchair and waited impatiently for the magus to return. For want of anything better to do, he dusted off his garments. All he could think about was what the magus would say when he made his report. He had already decided to start with the most important business — Gorén’s books. There was no reason to believe that Lot-Ionan would divulge their mysterious contents, but Tungdil hoped he would.
Just then he heard someone approaching from the corridor. He knew at once that it couldn’t be Boëndal or Boïndil; the soft footsteps belonged to a light, unarmored man.
Tungdil was too bored to pass up an opportunity to amuse himself and, leaving the knapsack and bag of artifacts beside Lot-Ionan’s chair, he leaped to his feet and hid behind the door, intending to jump out and scare the unsuspecting famulus. Chuckling silently in anticipation, he peered around the door.
The young man who came into the room had short black hair and was dressed in the malachite robes of Nudin’s school. He made straight for Lot-Ionan’s papers and set about sorting through his documents with shocking disrespect.
What in the name of Vraccas is he doing? Tungdil watched from his hiding place as the famulus sifted through a stack of notes, thereby solving the mystery of the unusually tidy room. Next he made himself comfortable at the magus’s desk and set to work on the higgledy-piggledy documents and books, sorting them into piles and jotting the details on a list.
Tungdil looked on in amazement. Who allowed one of Nudin’s pupils to forage through Lot-Ionan’s things? What’s he doing here anyway? If Lot-Ionan wanted someone to tidy his study for him, he had plenty of likely candidates in his own school, but Tungdil knew that the magus was very particular about his work. The documents that the young man was handling were strictly private and no one was permitted to look at them, least of all an apprentice from another enchanted realm.
Dragging footsteps sounded in the corridor and a second figure appeared at the door. The famulus looked up crossly, not bothering to hide his annoyance. “What is it?”
Tungdil pressed his face to the crack in the door and peered at the newcomer. All he could see was a broad back and a coarsely woven shirt.
“I’ve finished in the kitchens,” said a deep, sluggish voice. The dwarf placed it immediately: It was Eiden, the magus’s groom.
“Good. Then find yourself a quiet corner and stay out of my way,” came the famulus’s sharp reply.
Eiden stayed where he was, filling the doorway like a fleshy statue. “I’m hungry,” he said dully.
“Why don’t you gnaw on some bones in the kitchens?” the famulus said impatiently. “But remember not to touch the meat — it’s for our sentries. Now, leave me in peace.”
“I want meat,” the man insisted.
“Go!” The famulus picked up a letter opener and hurled it at him. Whether he intended to wound the groom or
whether it was a poorly judged throw, he succeeding in striking Eiden in the chest. The man groaned and staggered from the room.
At last the dwarf could see his face, which was ashen and horribly mangled. A club had crushed the right side of his head and his visage looked barely human.
At the sight of his torso Tungdil took a sharp intake of breath. The pale fabric of Eiden’s shirt was caked with blood from two deep gashes to his collarbone and chest. The afflicted flesh was decaying, the skin around it yellow.
Tungdil was instantly reminded of Greenglade and its gory revenants. No, he thought, the Perished Land can’t have breached the magic girdle. Lot-Ionan had gone to Porista to renew the barrier and preempt an attack, and in any event, the Perished Land’s dominion ended 450 miles north of Ionandar’s vaults. Then why is Eiden still alive?
A gust swept through the room and a blue shimmer appeared in the air, gradually assuming the contours of a man. It was Nudin the Knowledge-Lusty.
The famulus rose and bowed before the apparition. “I’ve been searching the school as you requested, Estimable Magus,” he reported, straightening up to face the bloated wizard. “There’s no sign of the items you mentioned. Goodness knows why the old man needed so many laboratories and libraries.” He decided to get his excuses in quickly. “The vaults go on and on. It’s a lot for me to manage on my own.”
“Which is why I shall be joining you in person.”
Tungdil hardly dared to breathe, lest he give himself away. Vraccas seemed intent on making him eavesdrop on all kinds of awkward conversations. He had seen Nudin once before, but he remembered him as being slimmer, healthier, and decidedly less cruel. The Nudin before him was like a caricature, an uncharitable likeness drawn by a detractor.
“ Lot-Ionan told me that the items were in a cupboard,” the magus continued, swiveling to survey the room. There was something oddly high-pitched about his gravelly voice. “Have you searched the place properly?”
